There’s no one who uses the word “f***” quite
like Trent Reznor. His “f*** has a stabbing ring you just can‘t ignore. And,
unlike the metal fraternity, he uses it selectively — so from the embittered
“Where the f*** were you?“ (“Somewhat Damaged“) to the on all-fours, debauched
“I want to f*** you like an animal“ (the best chat-up line known to rock, from
“Closer“), this four-letter expletive signifies so much more.

You see, Reznor is a law unto himself. He
barely speaks between songs. For any other band, this would be deemed
unforgivably apathetic. But Reznor has the mystique of a dark angel, a presence
that permeates every awe-filled onlooker.

Indeed, NIN not only hove the power to seduce
with their heartbeat rhythms, but, within minutes, they‘re ripping out your
very soul with their orgy of guitars. They embody the point where pleasure and
pain collide, exemplified in “Sin“ and “March Of The Pigs“, where your stomach
encases itself in your pelvic cartilage.

Although despair is a common NIN theme, it
should not be construed as superficial, self-indulgent angst on a
post-industrial platter. They may possess the dark synth-woven guitar textures
associated with “industrial“, but Reznor writes proper melodic songs with
lyrics uncovering genuine human pain (check the dark poetry of “Reptile“ —
“Angels bleed from the tainted touch of my caress“).

After the rippling, filmic “La Mer“, classics
“Wish“ and “Head Like A Hole“, and vicious “Starf***ers, mc“, the grinding
tones of “Closer“ dissolve Barry White‘s complete repertoire into a pool of
stagnant goo. Reznor closes on “Hurt“, a ballad of soul-baring proportions, and
we air-clap along, as Reznor doubles up, clinging to his own personal torment.